


Four Last Songs: The Art of Dying

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Series: Four Last Songs [1]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Extreme angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, READ THE END NOTES IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED AND NEED MORE INFORMATION, Read at Your Own Risk, Sexual Situations, The Beatles are the Titus Andronicus of bands, major character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-06 23:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12220758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: This four-part series is an AU that starts out with a grain of truth: Paul announced that he was leaving The Beatles on April 9, 1970.I can say no more (without giving away massive plot points).





	1. Paul

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the structure of this series are borrowed from "Four Last Songs," written by Richard Strauss shortly before his death. I chose four solo Beatles songs for reasons that will become obvious as you read.  
> The four stories in the series are:  
>  **The Art of Dying**  
>  **Photograph**  
>  **Maybe I'm Amazed**  
>  **Imagine**  
>  WARNING: This story has a lot of individual triggering elements that, again, I can't mention without giving away massive plot points. If you are easily triggered, then please read with extreme caution and STOP if you begin to feel uneasy.

April 9, 1970

 

Paul had always been meticulous. He started out as an unnaturally tidy child who grew into a fanatically organized adolescent, and his adulthood habits bordered on the anal-retentive. They would serve him well today, this day that he would spend in preparation followed by performance. He needed everything to be just so. His first solo album, "McCartney," was complete and in the can, and he had many, many things to do before it went public. 

Such as officially leaving The Beatles. 

At the moment he was alone in the house on Cavendish Avenue, having given Linda, Heather, and baby Mary many fond goodbye kisses before they left for the farm. Even Martha was with them on this trip; all of his girls would be mucking around in the stables by the time he was done with the day's tasks, and the thought of them made his heart beat a little faster.

For himself, there was paperwork galore, some mundane and some very personal. He made certain that each document would stand expert scrutiny before folding it up and placing it in a carefully-labeled envelope. He fanned the envelopes neatly on his desk so that they could be easily sorted. 

That task ended, Paul took a hot shower and washed his hair, humming as he gave himself a close shave so that he would look his very best. He stopped mid-stroke with the razor when he realized that the tune was one of John's, "If I Fell," then continued shaving with a rueful sigh. _I couldn't stand the pain._  

He'd be leaving John, as well. 

But John's words wouldn't leave him. 

Paul selected his wardrobe with the same care as he always lavished on every aspect of his music. He chose grey flannel trousers, a dark green pullover jumper that John had once said "brought out all the colours" in his _kaleidoscope_ eyes, and spent five minutes polishing his black dress shoes. His underwear was all brand new - just in case _he blew his mind out in a car_ \- and when he was dressed, he looked at himself in every angle the floor-length mirror would provide.

His reflection showed him Paul McCartney, from the perfect hair to the perfect shoes, to the perfect smile he had practiced since puberty.

Who he was on the inside, however, _feeling two-foot small_ was another matter altogether.

It wouldn't do to end the band with the same tatty case he'd carried lyric sheets around in for all these years. The end of The Beatles was a serious event and it required a serious attaché case. He had selected a black leather one with shiny brass hardware. He lifted it, testing its weight, and set it on the passenger seat of his car. Everything was in order for the drive to Tittenhurst Park. _There's nothing you can do that can't be done._

Paul noticed that it was a particularly lovely day for a drive.

Unusually, he chose silence rather than the radio as he sped out of London. This was a time to get his thoughts in order, not to be distracted by the popular hits of the day - even if they were his own. Especially if they were his own, because that would mean hearing John, and George, and Ringo.

Not today. Not when he'd be leaving them.

By the time the cityscape turned to dappled shade _tangerine trees_ on Paul's face, he started to doubt his mission. The band had given him so much. On the other hand, the band had taken every last ounce of his strength, like Delilah shearing Samson, and he had nothing left to give. _I'm so tired._ Nothing left to give to anyone. And certainly not to John, who had soaked up Yoko's cruelty the way a sponge would soak up blood, then had wrung the sponge out on Paul's head while Yoko cackled and cheered him on.

He should have been nervous when the gates of Tittenhurst Park opened to him, should have wondered what was about to happen. But he had rehearsed the end of The Beatles in his mind, over and over and over, polishing it the way he did his songs. Even when John opened the door and stared impassively at him, Paul felt nothing but relief that it would soon be over and done with. _Why do I feel the way I do?_  

John was dressed from head to toe in loose-fitting white cotton, his hair hanging lankly from the center part that elongated his Roman nose to almost cartoonish lengths. He was barefoot and unshaven, and his glasses had fingerprints on the lenses. 

His voice was impatient when he finally spoke to Paul. "All right, I've sent Yoko on an errand, so we have the place to ourselves like you asked. What is it you need?" 

 _Love is all you need._  

It was time, then. Time to recite the words he'd been planning for over a year. Oddly, not since he had married Linda, but since John had married Yoko, planning to do it in Paris as if to say _fuck you_ to Paul. 

"I want you to remember," Paul said evenly, "that once upon a time there were two lads from Liverpool who meant the earth to one another." 

"That's ancient history, son," John replied with a half-smile, but he still didn't stand aside, still didn't gesture that Paul should come into the house.

"And those boys were in a band that went to the toppermost of the poppermost and back down again, but when they got to the end of the ride, only one of them was still in love."

It wasn't as easy to say these words in front of John, looking into his unsuspecting eyes, as Paul had anticipated. He prayed that the next part would come easier. 

"I can't do without that love," Paul said as he fumbled with the attaché case. 

John groaned. "No, for fuck's sake, Paul, not more fucking papers..." 

But then Paul had found the object he needed and pulled it out, and John's face went white with terror. 

It was a gun. 

"Where'd you get--shit, don't point that thing at me!" John shouted, backing away. 

Paul held the gun loosely in his left hand, the barrel facing the cool stone steps. He shook his head. "Don't worry, John." 

"Paul, Paul, please, put it down, you don't want--" 

For a moment, Paul could see all the other iterations of John, HIS John, in all the places he'd remember _all his life, though some had changed_ :   
  
_Woolton Village Fete, the handsome, tousled lad mangling lyrics._  
_Paul's living room, writing songs, eye to eye._  
_The Cavern Club, John's hand in the small of his back._  
_Hamburg, John's hand on his thigh._  
_Paris, John's hand on his cock, caressing him to orgasm._  
_Shea Stadium, sharing a mic so closely that it was like kissing._  
_Bangor, holding one another when they heard that Brian was gone._  
_Rishikesh, stolen moments that ended as Yoko's postcards began to arrive._  
_Abbey Road Studios, arguing about music._  
_Twickenham Studios, arguing about everything else but pretending it was the music.  
__Apple's offices. "I want a divorce."_

Paul's laugh was a mirthless explosion. John's face softened, his eyes growing wide with the first hint of kindness Paul had seen in many a month. Paul took a moment to commit this John to memory, the one who gazed at him with concern in his intelligent amber eyes, who reached for him with a perfectly sculpted, trembling hand. 

"It just fucking figures," Paul began, the words flowing out _like endless rain into a paper cup_ , "that my life's over, but it's yours that's flashing before my eyes." 

WIth a single, graceful movement, while John screamed and pleaded with him - "Jesus Christ, Paulie, oh God, please, please don't, no! NO!" - Paul placed the barrel of the gun in his own mouth, angled it up, up, up, and pulled the trigger.

 


	2. George

George was up to his elbows in peat when he spotted Ringo walking out the back door of Friar Park. Immediately George's face brightened, because a visit from Ringo always meant a relaxing, pleasant afternoon. He stood up and brushed the worst of the dirt from himself before loping over to his friend, arms outstretched.

Then he saw Ringo's face. It was chalk-white except for the red rims around his eyes, which made the blue of his irises match the perfect color of the April sky. "Ringo?" George asked, his heart hammering wildly.

"Mo's here, too. She's in the kitchen with Pattie. Oh, Christ, George..." Whatever this was, it had to be awful because Ringo was crying and...

...from inside the house, he heard Pattie's heartbroken scream.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even run to comfort his wife. "Ringo," he gasped. "What the hell's happened?"

Ringo took George's hands in his, squeezing tightly. He looked into George's eyes with so much pain in his expression that George forgot how to breathe, how to think.

"I'm so sorry, George." Ringo took a deep breath. "It's Paul - he's dead."

For an instant, George's mind flashed on the insane "Paul is dead" rumors and he almost began to laugh, almost chucked Ringo on the shoulder and ruffled his hair in amused exasperation, except that Ringo's eyes were flooded with tears and George knew, he KNEW.

Paul was gone.

"When? How?” George asked through trembling lips.

"About an hour ago. We should go inside. You need...we're all gonna need to sit down."

Shaken to the very core, George ushered Ringo into the kitchen. The women were already seated, huddled together at the enormous oak table. Pattie's white-knuckled fingers clutched Maureen's hand and she looked up at her husband through waterlogged eyelashes.

"This isn't..." Ringo rubbed his eyes. "It's so fucking hard. I don't even know how to say this except to just say it. Paul...he shot himself."

George sucked in a harsh breath. "Are you...are you sure?"

"Yeah. He went to John's house and did it at the front door."

No.

Impossible.

Not Paul.

But Ringo's heavy, sad gaze never wavered, and something broke inside of George, shattering within him like fallen glass. "No, no," he whispered brokenly. "Oh, shit, no..."

"I'm sorry, George, Pattie," Ringo whispered in a voice going hoarse from crying. "Yoko called me. She wanted me to tell you before you saw it on the news."

"What about Linda?" Pattie asked between hiccupping sobs.

"Mal's gone to Scotland to tell her. They don't have TV at the farm, so he has some time before all hell breaks loose. Pete Shotton's driving to Liverpool to take care of Jim and Mike."

George's hand scrabbled across the table and grasped one of Ringo's. He needed grounding. His head spun with whirling images of Paul, from the chubby pre-teen with guitar drawings falling out of his schoolbooks, to the breathtaking genius adored by the whole world, to the bossy, defiant son-of-a-bitch who made so many of their final recording sessions a pestilential hellhole, to the resigned, contemplative, slightly-unkempt man he'd had lunch with - God, was it just three days ago? - to complain about some of Phil Spector's production on George's yet-unfinished album.

When George tried to speak, his voice sounded hollow in his ears. He cleared his throat and felt a stab of guilt over forgetting that someone else felt a pain far worse than his own. "Christ. John must be a wreck."

"I'm going over there in a while. Yoko told me not to, but--"

"Fuck her," growled George.

"No, thanks," Ringo countered, then he winced at the inappropriateness of the joke at such a horrible time.

Pattie spoke again, sounding like a terrified child. "What can we do?" she asked, looking at Maureen with lost, soft eyes.

"Neil said we should sit tight," Ringo replied. "He and Peter have gone to Cavendish to see if...what he might have left behind. I told them I was coming here, so they'll probably phone us shortly." He shook his head, his shiny hair falling in front of his eyes. "We should probably plan what we'll say - you know reporters will be surrounding us sooner rather than later."

George didn't want to say anything. He would prefer socking a nosy asshole journalist in the face to giving a eulogy for his dead friend.

His dear, dead friend.

As if on cue, the phone began shrill, insistent ringing. Pattie kissed the back of George's neck, then got up to answer it. George started to rise, but Pattie mouthed that the call was for Ringo. Her hands shook as she passed the receiver.

"Neil, it's me," Ringo said. He sounded distant, unearthly, as he fiddled with the phone cord. "Can't you...oh, Jesus, no, I can't do that, Neil, it's... yes, I understand. I'll tell them. Ta, Neil, man, I'm so sorry. 'Bye." He hung up and walked back to the others.

"What did Neil want you to tell us?" asked George, wondering what on earth Neil could have said that upset Ringo any further than he already was. Surely the situation was bad enough on its own.

Ringo blanched. "It's...they need someone to identify the body. John's been sedated so he's in no state to do it, of course Yoko won't leave his side, and Neil's tied up with the police at Paul's...at Cavendish."

Bile rose in George's throat, souring his mouth and making it hard to breathe. He gazed at Ringo, seeing the silent plea in the huge blue eyes: _please don't make me do this_. Nodding with a heavy head, George said, "You've had to do so much already, Ritchie - I'll go." He took a deep, ragged breath. "Where is the...where did they take him?"

"Heatherwood Hospital. Neil said to use the labor and delivery entrance, it'll be blocked off for you."

"And we can bring Pattie home with us," Maureen suggested. "So she won't be alone."

George agreed, nodding a silent thanks to his stalwart friends. He walked over to Pattie and stroked her bright hair. "Is that all right with you?"

She nodded and wiped away her tears with a napkin. Maureen held tightly to her hand as Pattie answered. "Ringo will take good care of Maureen and me, and you can join us...when you're done. We'll cook something for later." Rising, standing on tiptoe to kiss George's cheek, she added, "I love you, George."

"Love you, too," he whispered in her ear. He watched the three of them pile into Ringo's car. When they were safely away, he trudged sadly to his bedroom and changed into suitably clean, square, sober clothing.

As if it would matter to Paul, he thought darkly as he went into the garage.

He drove slowly in his least-conspicuous car, hoping for anonymity. His drive down the sunny road was virtually uninterrupted by other cars, and true to Neil's word the entrance to the labor and delivery area of the hospital was completely vacant save for a single policeman.

"This way, Mr. Harrison," the young man said, clearly trying not to be impressed by a Beatle, not under these circumstances. He led George through corridors that seemed to get colder and darker, until they finally stopped in front of a plain grey door. Someone inside turned a lock and George was ushered into the morgue, his heart in his throat when he saw the shrouded figure of his boyhood friend.

"We're terribly sorry to disturb you at a time like this, Mr. Harrison," said the morgue attendant, "but it's protocol - someone who knew him well needs to identify him."

The whole world knew him well, George thought as he desperately blinked back tears. Paul's was probably the most famous face in the world. Why did they need someone who knew him well? Unless...

"Is it...is it bad?" George rasped. He didn't know if he could prepare himself to see not-Paul, his beautiful face blown away.

"No, sir. The damage was to the back of the skull. You won't even see it."

George swallowed loudly. _Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare_ , he whispered to himself, then he nodded that he was ready.

He wasn't. He could never be.

The attendant pulled the sheet back gently. George let out a pained cry at the sight of Paul's colorless face, so slack and inanimate. There was a towel tucked tightly behind the black hair, presumably hiding the fatal wound. Apart from the slightly-opened but unseeing eyes shadowed by lush, dark lashes, Paul could have been asleep.

Gently and respectfully, the police officer asked, "Can you identify the deceased, Mr. Harrison? Name, date of birth, and place of birth, if possible?"

He'd have to say it aloud, somehow. His voice shattered as he spoke. "It's James Paul McCartney, born June eighteenth, nineteen-forty-two in Liverpool, England."

George's knees buckled. He dropped to the cold tile floor, crouching there with his hands over his face. The policeman and morgue attendant stepped closer after a few moments, murmuring soothing platitudes and helping him back to his feet. He forced himself to look again, to memorize - as if he could ever unsee - Paul's features in their unnatural repose.

"Can I touch him?" George whispered. When the attendant nodded, George cupped Paul's waxen cheek, which was as cold as the floor, then pulled the sheet further back and stroked the backs of his chilled hands, still pliant from the freshness of his death but soon to be as immovable as marble, their music forever silenced.

George's rational self told him not to grieve, that this was just the empty vessel that had carried Paul around for twenty-seven brief years, and that Paul's spirit was safe and free of its earthly burdens. The words of the Bhagvad Gita rang through his mind.

 _As a man, casting worn-out garments,_  
_taketh new ones, so the dweller in the body,_  
_casting off worn-out bodies,_  
_entereth into others that are new..._  
_For certain is death for the born,_  
_and certain is birth for the dead;_  
_therefore over the inevitable_  
_thou shouldst not grieve._

His heart, however, wasn't so disciplined, wasn't ready to be comforted with knowledge or faith. George shuddered to think that Paul was lying here, naked and cold and alone and GONE.

For himself, for Ringo and John, for poor, poor Linda, he gave Paul a soft kiss on his smooth, cold forehead and whispered, "Sleep well, Paulie. We love you. I love you."

When he stepped back, the morgue attendant spread the sheet over Paul's corpse, hiding it from the world for the last time. George meant to ask what the plans were for his body, but he couldn't bear to speak of it. Instead he shook hands robotically with the other two men and walked to his car with a leaden heart. Every time he blinked, he saw Paul's filmy, empty eyes, and he knew that there would be no rest for him when he got to Ringo's place.

Especially since the house was surrounded by journalists, fans, and the morbidly curious, all converging between George and the front door.


	3. Ringo

"Fucking vultures," Ringo groused. He watched through the window as the Elstead police helped George fight his way through the microphones and cameras being waved in his face.

George was pale and his mouth was set in a thin line that Ringo recognized as a sign that George was a mere hair's-breadth away from doing bodily harm to someone. By the time he half-fell into the foyer, breathless and seething, he looked like someone who'd just been through a war.

"When did this start up?" he asked as he rid himself of his jacket and flung it over the back of a chair.

"Not long ago." Ringo pressed a glass of scotch into George's hand, letting himself touch George's fingers for a few extra seconds in hopes of comforting them both. "There's another mob at Friar Park. You might as well hang out here." 

"Ta." George downed half the alcohol in one swig. "Where're the girls?"

"Watching the news." Ringo winced at George's pained grimace. "They're not giving details yet but they'll be pouncing all over it once word gets out about...exactly what happened." 

George finished the rest of his drink. "They'd love seeing what I saw, then."

Ringo was torn between needing to know and being afraid of the answer. He put a hand on George's shoulder and squeezed gently. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not without another one of these." He gestured with the glass and Ringo quickly filled it from the decanter standing nearby. "Best tell the girls at the same time, if they want to hear. I'm not sure if I can say this more than once."

Ringo saw unspeakable pain in George's dark eyes. He slipped his hand through the crook of George's elbow and led him to the den, where Maureen and Pattie were watching the BBC coverage. 

Paul's face, vivid and smiling, was plastered all over the screen. Ringo saw George's shudder and motioned to Maureen to turn the television off. With a heavy sigh that threatened to turn into a sob, George sank onto the sofa and pressed his cheek against the top of Pattie's head. 

Maureen settled herself at George's feet, looking up at him with such concern that Ringo's aching heart loved her even more. He stood behind his wife and let her lean back against his legs as George cleared his throat.

"It's definitely Paul," he began, and Ringo felt a fresh jolt of horror when he realized that he had been holding out hope that it had all been a terrible mistake. George blinked back tears as he continued. "It wasn't gruesome. I couldn't see the wound. His face was...oh, God..."

"It's okay," Pattie murmured. "Take your time, love."

George shook his hair out of his eyes and started to speak again. "He just was so STILL. I've never seen him when he wasn't moving, not even when he was asleep or drunk. He looked a little...surprised, maybe? But not in pain. He wasn't in any pain." 

"Ah, George, lad, I'm so sorry, I should've gone with you," Ringo stammered, pangs of guilt stabbing him, robbing him of breath and energy. 

"I said goodbye for all of us. I touched his face and hands, and I kissed his forehead, and I told him I loved him - that we all loved him." 

Pattie began to cry afresh, blue eyes swimming with tears. George let out a harsh sob and turned toward Ringo. "Tell Neil and Mal, will you? I just can't talk about it anymore. I don't know if I can even bear to think about it anymore. He was COLD, he was so fucking cold, and he was lying in there all alone and naked and cold..." 

Ringo swooped down and threw his arms around George, rocking him back and forth. "Don't, don't, George, he wouldn't want you to be like this." 

"I didn't realize," George lamented, even more tears streaming down his face. "I didn't know it was that bad for him. He seemed a little down when I saw him a couple of days ago, but I never thought...he was just twenty-seven...there was Linda and Heather and the baby..." He broke down completely while Pattie and Ringo held tightly to him and Maureen laid her head down on his knee. 

"I wish I had an answer for you," Ringo said softly. "I wish I'd had a clue that it was going on. I mean, he was a mess when we were filming the fucking movie, but weren't we all?" 

George nodded against Ringo's shoulder, gave an embarrassed sniffle, then let himself relax in Pattie's embrace. He patted the crown of Maureen's head and smiled at her. "What was the Beeb getting wrong, a while ago?" 

"Oh, God, everything," Maureen said as she rolled her eyes. "They said John was the oldest Beatle, they set up cameras at the house next door to Paul's, and it went downhill from there. It's just gone five, maybe they've started again."

Ringo got up and turned the television on. Michael Barratt had interrupted his own "Nationwide" program and was interviewing someone Ringo had never seen before but was acting as if he were some sort of expert on the group. 

"...speculation that Mr. McCartney had hidden health problems that may have led to his untimely death..."

 Pattie groaned and shook her head.

The unknown faux expert was about to say something when Barratt interrupted. "I'm terribly sorry, but a bulletin has just come in. We at the BBC have just received word that the cause of Paul McCartney's death was a single gunshot wound to the head. It appears to have been self-inflicted." 

"There it is," Ringo groaned. He could imagine the grim groups of teenagers wailing at this news, and for a moment he almost envied them the ability to express their grief openly.

The news continued to unfold. 

"And we have...I don't know how...a photograph showing the aftermath of this tragic event. Due to the sensitive nature, we have blurred out the most disturbing imagery, but we do warn you that this may be very, very difficult to view." 

The four of them were frozen in horror as a grainy black-and-white image appeared on the screen: John, sitting barefoot at the entrance to his home, with Paul splayed across his lap. Though the print was of low quality it was easy to see the open-mouthed horror in John's face as he stared down at the limp, lifeless body. Mercifully, the photo was cropped at Paul's shoulders, or else Ringo was certain that he would have gone absolutely, stark raving mad at the sight. 

"Who in the hell could have fucking taken a fucking PICTURE of that?" Ringo shouted, his anguish suddenly replaced by a white-hot outrage. 

"I think we all know the answer to that," Maureen replied, her voice sour and poisonous. 

"Surely not," began Pattie, then she sagged against George. 

Barratt was speaking again, his calm demeanor clearly shaken by what he had just seen. "At this time, we have live footage from the home of John Lennon, Tittenhurst Park, so we will take you there now." 

Ringo felt George's fingernails digging into his shoulder as they both leaned forward to get a glimpse of John. 

He looked like shit. 

Pale, shivering, chomping on gum, his eyes glazed with horror or sedatives or both, he was a pitiful sight as he tried to look away from the gang of reporters shouting questions at him. The loudest query, "What did you think when you realized that Paul was dead?" stopped him in his tracks. 

John slumped against the door and with shaking hands indicated the very spot, cordoned off with orange pylons, where Paul had lain. He looked into the BBC camera and said, "What a bloody mess," then turned around and let Yoko lead him back into the house. 

"That's it!" George shouted as he jumped off the sofa and turned the television off with a brutal slap. "I'm going over there, I'm going to fucking kill him! 'A bloody mess?' That's all the bastard has to say about watching his best friend blow out his fucking brains?" 

"George, he was upset, couldn't you see..." began Maureen, but George began stomping around the room, tugging at his hair as he swore and raged. 

"Fuck him! Fucking, fucking monster!" 

Ringo ran up behind him and tried to soothe him. "He was sedated. Did you see his eyes? You can't hold it against him." 

"Watch me TRY!" George yelled. He started fumbling in his pockets for his car keys but Ringo grabbed his wrists. While George was taller, Ringo's arms were stronger and he held his friend fast. 

"Listen to me," Ringo said, forcing his voice to be calm. "We have to stick together now, the three of us. The whole bloody world's watching. Don't pay attention to John on the news - he was off his head. He needs us, George." 

"I NEED to rip his throat out with my bare hands! Let me go, Ritchie!" 

But Ringo only held tighter. His whole body started to ache with the strain of keeping George's frantic energy under control. "We're the only two people in the world who can save John Lennon. Understand me?" 

At the instant George stopped struggling, Ringo realized that he had never seen his friend so angry in all the years they'd known one another. 

"Why would we want to save a heartless piece of shit like him?" George asked, his voice lifeless and dull. "It should've been him that died, not Paul." 

Maureen and Pattie both let out small, distressed cries that made Ringo shudder from head to toe. "You don't really mean that, love." He implored George to listen, to understand, to respond.

It worked, as it always did; George's anger never lasted long when Ringo was there to steady him. "I didn't. I don't....mean it. It's just..." George's wide, frightened eyes closed wearily and he let his head drop to Ringo's shoulder. He wrapped his slender arms around Ringo in a tight hug.

"C'mon, then, George," Ringo whispered. "Let's go comfort the poor bastard."

 


	4. John

_All my loving, I will give to you._

John jolted awake, Paul's voice ringing in his ears. Thank God, thank God, it was all a horrible nightmare. Paul wasn't dead, hadn't blown the back of his beautiful, stubborn head off while John pleaded and pleaded and pleaded. 

When he opened his eyes, fully expecting to see Paul singing AT him, trying to annoy him enough to get him out of bed, he found something else altogether. The voice was Paul's, but it came out of the television. The chyron below Paul's smiling, angelic face read: Paul McCartney 1942-1970. _One day you'll look to see I've gone_. 

Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No. Fuck, no. 

He took stock of his location (sofa), the time of day (Paul was still alive six hours ago), and his condition (fucking awful). 

An idiotic newsreader was telling the world, who already knew, so why were they going over this again, that Paul had taken his own life _why would he treat us so thoughtlessly?_ at the home of bandmate John Lennon _how could he do this to me?_ and suddenly John saw himself holding Paul's body across his lap _mother Mary comes to me_ like the fucking Pietá. 

Christ, this was real, it wasn't a hallucination or a sick, sick nightmare. He'd seen Paul die right in front of his face. In his arms.

Had someone been there, had someone seen what happened? 

He was shaking, desperate for a cigarette or booze. "Yoko!" he shouted. His throat ached. "Yoko!"

There was no answer, no soft rush of feet, no high-pitched voice.

Where the hell had _where did you go?_ she run off to? 

John's leaden arms and legs scarcely got him off the sofa, but he managed to get to his feet without toppling over. He had one hand on the back of the sofa and the other on his throbbing head when he heard his own voice as if through a filter at the studio. 

"It's a bloody mess," he was saying on the television. 

But when had he said that? Why were there reporters on the doorstep? What was he wearing? What had Yoko done with the clothes Paul had spattered with his lifeblood?

Where was Yoko, anyway? 

The telephone. Yes, he'd call someone. Someone who'd help him. Frantically he began dialing the first number that came to his mind, only to stop halfway, howling with grief, when he realized it was Paul's. He clashed the receiver down, took a deep breath, and tried Ringo. Maureen answered, God bless Maureen. 

"Mo?" 

"Oh my God, John!" Maureen's voice was heavy, frightened. "Ritchie and George are on their way, love. Peter Brown was just here and he brought...well, they'll explain when they get to you. We're all mad with worry. How are you feeling?" 

"I don't know," John said. His eyes burned. He rubbed them but that made it worse. "Yoko's not here. I'm alone. _All the lonely people._ I don't know what to do." 

"Stay put, John. There are police guarding the outside of your house, you're safe, and two policemen are escorting the boys. They'll help you." There was a pause in which John could hear Pattie's voice telling John how sorry she was. She was crying. 

He was crying too, sobbing into the phone. "How much longer?" he begged. "I don't want to be alone, please, don't leave me alone _don't ever leave me alone_." 

"We'll stay on the phone until they show. You don't have to talk, just stay with us." 

"Why didn't HE?" John screamed. 

"Oh, John, I wish I knew, I wish..." Maureen's voice cracked and John could hear her stubbing out a cigarette. "Where's Yoko gone, then?" Maureen asked, sounding more like herself. 

"I don't know...I don't know anything...I can't remember anything after Paul..." He was interrupted by a commotion at the front of the house. "I think that's them," he said, leaving Maureen hanging as he started running drunkenly toward the unmistakable sounds of an argument in the foyer. 

Indoor and outdoor policemen were yelling at one another. No, it was George and Ringo yelling, calling out for him. "John! John!" 

"She left strict instructions that he's not to be disturbed," declared the constable who was barring the door from the police escorting Ringo and George. 

"That's not for her to decide!" George sounded as if he could tear the walls down with his bare hands.

"Let them in," John said as calmly as he could. Surely they would listen to him if he just didn't sound insane. Too insane. _I'm down._ More insane than the day warranted. _I'm really down._  

For an instant the constable hesitated, as if trying to decide which course of action would cause him the least trouble. In that split second of indecision, George shoved the man aside and dragged Ringo into the house by his arm. 

The three of them stared stupidly at each other. John could see how haggard George was, and how swollen and red Ringo's eyes were. He knew he had to look even worse. 

If this was what it was like to survive, then he'd rather follow Paul to the grave. 

George, one arm around each of the others, steered them toward the den where John had been napping. The television was still on, the announcer stating that "a private detective hired by Yoko Ono to protect Mr. Lennon is said to have captured film as well as this photograph of the two men immediately after the fatal gunshot." The photo's reappearance was more than John could endure and he pulled the plug out of the wall to silence the taunting commentary. 

"That bitch," muttered George as Ringo picked up the phone, calming Maureen with a few simple words John couldn't hear and then gently placing the receiver back.. "Film. Jesus."

John collapsed on the sofa, leaning over with his head in his hands as he shuddered violently. Why was it so fucking cold in April? Ringo slipped in next to him and ran his hands up and down John's arms. "He's freezing, George - can you light a fire? Will that be okay, John?" 

John nodded, watching from one bleary eye as George knelt by the hearth and struck a match _two of us burning matches_. Soon there were beautiful orange flames flickering upward, but John didn't feel any warmer. He wrapped his hands around Ringo's arms and held tightly to his sturdy biceps. Moments later George joined them, enfolding John and Ringo together, his embrace more hesitant but no less loving. 

It was the way Paul had held him at Julia's wake, when he had broken into a million pieces that only Paul could repair. 

"If you want to talk about it then we'll listen," Ringo whispered, "or if you don't, that's fine, too. _We can work it out._ Whatever you need." 

"It...it happened so fast," John stammered,. "I thought he was gonna serve papers but he...oh, God, he pulled out a gun, then I thought he was gonna shoot me." John trembled against Ringo's solid, compact body as he began babbling even faster. " But he didn't...I tried to stop him but he did it...he fucking did it so fast, oh, Christ, and he fell down, he just FELL, like a puppet with cut strings...it must've hurt him so bad..." 

"Ssh, Johnny, it's okay." George's low murmur was so gentle _your voice is soothing_ that John leaned back against him to feel the vibrations. "I saw him." 

John's mouth fell open. Of course, someone had to go identify the body. "God, George. I'm so sorry." 

"He didn't suffer at all John, it was over in an instant. He's at peace now," George said, but his dark eyes were burning brighter than the fire that brought John no warmth, no comfort.

"That's more than we'll be able to say about us," moaned John. "I can't close my eyes, I can't stop _I've just seen a face_ seeing him. I wasn't fast enough, I wasn't GOOD enough, I didn't love him enough..." 

"You did, though," Ringo said firmly. "You're going into shock, love. Not surprised after what you've been through. Let's get you over by the fire." Together Ringo and George pulled pillows and blankets near the fireplace and settled John down with his head in Ringo's lap while George gently stroked his hands. 

John drifted in and out of awareness, buoyed by his friends' warmth and care. _It's only love_. He vaguely registered a long envelope being pressed into his limp hand and Ringo saying "He left these at his house. Peter brought them over just before we left." In the periphery of his hearing, the part that wasn't consumed with Paul's phantom voice, he heard the others slice theirs open. John clutched his as if it contained Paul's soul rather than his handwriting.

He felt a tear fall in his hair. Ringo was reading something out loud, something that sounded so very much like Paul. "'You're the best drummer in the world, Ritchie. I said it once and I'll say it again because it's true. You're also the best person, the most honest man, I've ever met. Take good care of yourself and the family, mate. I love you.'"

 _Though the days are few, they're filled with tears._  

George's voice broke as he began to read. "'To my other...to my other baby brother: I failed you as a friend but I never stopped loving you and never shall. I have faith in your faith and I know you and Pattie will be all right. Hare Krishna, my old friend, and we'll see one another in the next life."

John tried to sit up but he was too tired, and his eyes were too blurred with tears to think about reading. _Things we said today._ He held the letter - Paul's last words to him - against his heart. He was about to ask one of the others to read it to him when he heard the door slam. 

Yoko. 

"I told the police that you weren't to enter," she said coldly. 

"John said otherwise." George, rising, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, stared Yoko down without fear. "That fucking picture's been on the telly all night. What the hell was that about, Yoko?" 

She shrugged. "John said Paul insisted they meet alone. I didn't think it was safe, so I hired someone. He'll turn the film over to me - I gave him money."

John heard two more sets of footsteps. He pried his eyes open long enough to see two tall, beefy young men flanking Yoko. Of course. Bodyguards. 

"It's time for you to leave," Yoko said as she pulled a prescription bottle from her handbag. "John needs his medicine." 

"He needs his friends more," Ringo declared. 

"And look at him, he's barely conscious! Why does he need anything else in his system?" added George. 

Before John had a chance to add his own pleas, the two goons came forward and lurked menacingly over George. "You need to leave," said the larger of the two, "before we make you."

Americans. It figured.

Ringo gently laid John's head on the pillow and stood, touching George's arm lightly. He still had tears on his face and he grasped Paul's letter in his hand, a weapon against Yoko's chilly cruelty. "We'd better go, George. There's been enough trauma for one day." 

They leaned low over John, touching his arm, his face, his hair. "We'll call you in the morning," promised Ringo. 

"If you need anything..." George's anger was laced with defeat. John heard them leave, closing the door quietly behind themselves. 

Yoko sat down next to John and put her cool hand on his face. "What's that in your hand, darling?" she asked, waving the hired goons away.

 John's lips struggled around the words that tasted so vile as he spoke them. "Paul left...suicide notes for us." _P.S. I love you._ He needed to hear what Paul had said to him, needed Paul's softness to take away the sour regret and replace it with something sweet and gentle _a taste of honey_. 

Yoko pulled the envelope from John's lax hand. "Take your medicine and I'll read it to you." 

He didn't want another sedative; he was already so weary. But he knew that Yoko was intractable and it would be best to agree, to do anything, just to hear Paul's last words. "Please, just read it to me. _As I write this letter._ I need to know what he said. _Send my love to you._ Please."

Yoko held John's head up enough to help him swallow the pill with a little water, then let him fall back on the pillows. He was drifting off as she sliced the envelope open with a long fingernail. She said nothing as she read. 

"Please, oh, God, I need to know...he told the others he loved them, did he love me?"

Yoko placed the letter back in the envelope and tossed it into the fire. 

"You'll stay with me, John," she said as the sedative began to work on his exhausted system. "You'll stay with me forever, or you'll never know." 

John smelled the burning paper. He wanted to reach for it, but his body didn't quite work. As he began to fall into an unnatural slumber, he realized that Yoko had just taken Paul from him one last time.

 _Oh, darling_  
_Please believe me_  
_I'll never make it alone..._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I could never have done this without Bakerstreetafternoon, beta reader extraordinaire, hand-holder par excellence, and all-around amazing person, and Savageandwise, who strongly suggested pulling this story out of mothballs and finishing it, and whose marvelous writing inspires me to try harder than ever.
> 
> IF YOU NEED MORE EXPLICIT TRIGGER WARNINGS THAN ARE IN THE NOTES, THEN PLEASE SCROLL BELOW AND DECIDE IF YOU WANT TO READ. WARNINGS IN THE TAGS WOULD SPOIL THE STORY.  
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> SPOILER AHEAD
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> A suicide occurs.


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